


A is for 'Awesome'

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Category: Easy A (2010), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Easy A Fusion, Don't Judge Me, I Wrote This For Fun, I don't even know anymore, I'm Writing Sterek - What The Hell Am I Doing?, Lies, M/M, Misinformation, Rumours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The rumours of my promiscuity have been greatly exaggerated.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>When a white lie snowballs out of control, Stiles finds himself saddled with a not entirely unwelcome reputation as the school slut.</p><p>An Easy A/Teen Wolf fusion, with Stiles cast as Olive, and everyone else filing in accordingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Bad Judgement, Too Much Alcohol, And A Shitty Best Friend Put Me On The Map As The Kid Who Lost His Virginity To An Ex-Murder Suspect

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even ship Sterek. What am I doing?
> 
> This was written for fun. Don't judge me.

_The rumours of my promiscuity have been greatly exaggerated._

_Wow. Now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d be saying. Don’t get me wrong, Beacon Hills, normally I’d be the last person you’d hear complaining about my new reputation, but this has to stop._

_The worst thing about all of this is that it started with just one lie. It wasn’t even a bad lie – which, yes, I’ve told, and far more often than I’d like – but an innocent one. A white lie._

_And it all boils down to the fact that I really didn’t want to watch my best friend pine over his ex._

* * *

 

**Part One  
 _How Bad Judgement, Too Much Alcohol, And A Shitty Best Friend Put Me On The Map As The Kid Who Lost His Virginity To An Ex-Murder Suspect_**

* * *

 

Scott can’t _not_ know what he’s doing, because this is driving Stiles _insane._ It’s barely been four days since The Great Break-Up – and _shut up,_ if Scott’s allowed to melodramatic about this, then Stiles is too – and Stiles’ best friend has yet to stop moping.

He is literally _killing_ Stiles with his mopeyness.

Stiles isn’t even exaggerating – Scott’s iPod playlist has been pretty much ninety per cent Adele, and the amount of times that Stiles has been forced to sit through _The Bridget Jones Diary_ in the past four days is frankly ridiculous. Stiles is sick of waiting for Scott to move on to the _better off without you anyway_ phase of the break-up – for Adele to be exchanged for Alanis Morissette and _The Bridget Jones Diary_ to be exchanged for something a bit angrier, and a bit more aggressive.

It just doesn’t seem like that transition will be happening any time soon.

Which: okay, cool. Stiles can deal with that. Given the insurmountable pile of crap he’s had to deal with over the past year – _werewolves and hunters and kanimas, oh my!_ – dealing with Scott’s post-break-up depression really isn’t that much of a challenge.

But there’s only so many times that Stiles can listen to Scott singing along to _Someone Like You_ without wanting to spork his eyes out.

So, when Scott invites Stiles over that weekend for _hanging out,_ Stiles knows his best friend well enough to hear _listen to me wax poetic about Allison and cry into a tub of ice-cream over a rom com again._ As much as Stiles loves Scott as a brother, _no,_ just _no._ As in, Stiles-would-rather-cover-himself-in-raw-steaks-and-then-run-around-the-woods-naked _no._

“No, Scott,” Stiles says sternly. “The answer is no.”

And there it is, like clockwork, the pout. Stiles determinedly does not look at his best friend’s face. “Why?”

Part of Stiles wants to tell the truth – let Scott know exactly why Stiles doesn’t want to _hang out_ with him this weekend. Who knows, maybe it’ll make Scott pick up his act and bust him out of his perpetual state of sulkiness, but Stiles knows his best friend well enough to know that that’s wishful thinking. No good will come out of tactlessness at the moment, and Stiles’ relationship with Scott is still on somewhat shaky ground after the whole Gerard showdown, so Stiles bites down on the harsh words sat at the back of his throat.

“I just,” he says instead, floundering. “I already have plans.”

Scott raises his eyebrows. “You have plans,” he echoes flatly.

“Yes!” Stiles affirms energetically. “I have plans! With someone. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“ _You_ have plans,” Scott repeats dumbly. “With _someone._ ”

And—okay. That’s actually kind of insulting, now that Stiles thinks about it. “You don’t have to sound so shocked,” Stiles mutters.

“I’m sorry,” Scott apologises immediately. “Just … with who?”

Stiles actually hadn’t gotten that far in his thought process. “You don’t know him,” he says. “I met him at the Jungle.”

If possible, Scott’s eyebrows shoot even further into his hairline. “Him?” he repeats, the unspoken question hanging in the air between them.

Stiles opens his mouth, and then clamps it shut. _Shit._ Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. That? _Really_ not how Stiles wanted to come out to his best friend.

“Yes?” Stiles replies, voice rising in pitch.

Scott seems to ponder this for a minute, and Stiles just— _really Scott?_ Is this really _that_ hard to believe? Did he forget the one time that Stiles offered to make out with him?

Scott must spot the look of mild offense on Stiles face because he clamps a hand down on Stiles’ shoulder. “Dude,” he says. “You know I don’t have a problem with it. I just—I thought you liked Lydia, you know?”

Stiles pushes all the air out of his lungs, trying not to picture Lydia wrapped around a very naked Jackson. “Things change,” he tells his best friend. “Gotta get over her sometime, right?”

Scott grins. “Well then I’m happy for you dude. Enjoy your jungle date.”

“Don’t call him that,” Stiles says with an eye-roll.

* * *

 

It takes the entirety of Stiles’ drive home that day to realise that if he wants to uphold the ruse of his jungle date – and fuck you Scott, now he’s doing it too – then he’s going to actually have to go out that weekend. He and Scott are close enough that they have keys to each other’s houses – much to the ever-growing dismay of Ms McCall – and tend to randomly drop by whichever house is closer.

So Stiles needs to not be home this weekend.

After ditching his backpack in a corner of his room, Stiles pulls out his phone and fires off a text to the contact group listed in his phone as _Actual Goddesses._

**_Stiles:  
_ ** _Got some free time this weekend. Meet at the Jungle?_

The reply comes immediately.

**_Brandy:  
_ ** _Depends. How drunk are you looking to get?_

Stiles grins at his phone screen.

* * *

 

_I’m tempted to just cut it off here. As much as I love my newfound notoriety, you guys decidedly do not need to hear about what a sixteen year old kid with a fake ID – although it is, admittedly, a very good fake – got up to at a gay bar with a bunch of drag queens. Let’s just say that I had a few too many drinks, played and lost enough rounds of strip poker that I was walking around shirtless and barefoot the rest of the evening, and passed out in what I thought were the safe arms of a complete stranger._

_That’s where this tale gets interesting._

* * *

 

Stiles head hurts.

Like, jack-hammer, hangover from hell, not enough ibuprofen in the world _hurts._

He wakes up slowly, with his senses returning to him in parts. As he stretches himself out, half-asleep, he recognises the feel of the material beneath him. Leather – he’s on someone’s couch.

_Shit._

Stiles’ eyes snap open, and he immediately winces at the bright light filtering in through the open windows on one side of the room. When he’s able to keep his eyes open without his brain protesting too much, Stiles takes in his surroundings.

He’s most certainly not anywhere he recognises. It’s dusty here, and the floor is cold against his bare feet. Most of all, though, the entire apartment area is just _empty,_ like an old warehouse, or a converted loft.

“Stiles? What are you doing here?”

At the sound of a familiar voice, Stiles turns his head, and sees Isaac, barefoot and dressed in flannel pyjamas, descending a spiral staircase to the floor where Stiles is.

Stiles opens his mouth to reply – most likely with an incredulous, _Me? What the hell are you doing here? _– when another voice cuts across him.

“ _Stiles_ is here because he wasn’t sober enough to make his way home last night.”

Stiles turns again – and all this dramatic turning is making him feel like part of the cast on a kdrama – and feels everything inside of him strain to resist the urge to bash his head against something hard. Derek Hale. Derek _fucking_ Hale. Stiles passed out into the arms of _Derek Hale_ last night, and what’s worse, Brandy _let him._

Stiles is going to _kill her._ He’s going to kill _all of them._

“Yeah, well,” Stiles says, and Jesus Christ, it’s like he was pouring _paint stripper_ down his throat, it aches so much. “ _Stiles,_ ” he imitates Derek’s strange stress on his name, like he’s making some kind of point, “has a killer headache and though very much grateful to you for the provision of your couch for him to crash on last night, _really_ needs to get home to his dad, the sheriff, before his dad, who is still the sheriff, files a missing persons report for his prodigal son.”

Derek does that thing with his eyebrows. “Would _Stiles_ first like some Tylenol and breakfast?”

Stiles’ mouth falls open. He forces it closed. “ _Stiles_ would appreciate that.”

Isaac is apparently done with this shit. “Stiles should stop speaking about himself in the third person,” he mutters, pushing past Derek into what Stiles presumes is the kitchen.

“Stiles loves you too!” Stiles shouts after him, because apparently, he’s funny like that.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you a lift home when you’re done,” he says.

Stiles follows Isaac into the kitchen and hopes that Derek won’t take offence at being asked to drop Stiles off a couple of blocks away from his house, because, well, _sheriff._

* * *

 

When Stiles walks in, at half eleven in the morning, barefoot ad bare-chested, his father just looks him up and down and sighs. “I don’t want to know, do I?” he asks, picking up his morning paper and shaking his head.

“Still a virgin!” Stiles calls after him, because he has no verbal filter.

“Still don’t want to know!” his dad calls back.

* * *

 

Sunday passes in a blur of homework and threatening Brandy with dismemberment via text. She responds with a relaxed, _I did you a favour kiddo. Tall Dark and Handsome was capital-H Hot. Besides, I would totally have called the cops if you hadn’t texted me by now._

Brandy is the absolute _worst._

* * *

 

Monday starts off badly.

By badly, of course, Stiles means that the first thing Scott does when he sees Stiles is to punch him on the shoulder. _Hard._

“Hey, what the hell was that for?” Stiles asks his best friend.

“You didn’t tell me your date on Saturday was with _Derek_!” Scott whispers harshly. “Derek, Stiles? Seriously?”

Stiles blinks at Scott. “What?” he asks. “I wasn’t on a date with Derek. Why the hell would I be on a date with Derek Hale, of all people?”

“Why would I know?” Scott retorts. “You’re the one dating him, not me.”

“I’m not dating Derek Hale, Scott,” Stiles says.

Scott is not convinced. “Yeah?” he asks. “So why did Danny say he saw you and Derek leaving the Jungle together, then?” Scott has one hand on his hip, the picture of sass, and Stiles would normally laugh if not for the fact that he’s starting to feel just a little targeted.

“I’m not dating Derek,” Stiles says slowly, tone dangerously level, “and if I were, I’m pretty sure it would be firmly in the region of _none of your business._ ”

“I’m pretty sure it _is_ my business if my best friend is sleeping with _Derek_ _Hale_!” Scott all but shouts.

Stiles freezes.

And so does everyone else.

Stiles stares at Scott, who’s backed by the rest of the crowded hallway, all of whom are staring at Stiles like he’s, well, like he’s just been revealed to be sleeping with a man suspected of murder.

_Fuck._


	2. How My Shitty Best Friend Redeemed Himself, I Got Myself A Gay (Sort Of) Best (Not Really) Friend, And Was Still A Virgin Despite Everybody Spreading Rumours To The Contrary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! And still writing this fic! ~~What am I doing?~~

_Beacon Hills has two things that are seemingly at odds with one another: a disturbingly low life expectancy (thank you for that, recent increased murder rates), and a booming elderly population. The first statistic has led to an increase in the amount of crazy, life-affirming monkey-sex us teenagers are getting up to. The second, to a rumour mill with a frightening efficiency._

_And the news that the sheriff’s kid was banging accused-of-murder, looks-like-an-actual-serial-killer, disastrously-sexy Derek Hale? Well, it spread about as fast as you would expect it to._

* * *

 

**Part Two  
 _How My Shitty Best Friend Redeemed Himself, I Got Myself A Gay (Sort Of) Best (Not Really) Friend, And Was Still A Virgin Despite Everybody Spreading Rumours To The Contrary_**

* * *

 

By lunchtime, Stiles has a shiny new reputation as a bi-curious freak between the sheets, with a possible thing for older men and a definite thing for flirting with danger. He knows he should hate it – he’s never been the sort to want his private life to be anything other than private – but awful as it may be, he’s kind of enjoying how all of this is about him for once.

Suddenly, the talk of the school isn’t Scott’s lacrosse prowess, or Lydia’s latest birthday bash, or – woe betide them all – Jackson Whittemore’s perfect abs, but _Stiles._ Skinny, awkward Stiles, whose ability to smooth-talk is limited to keeping his father in the dark about werewolves.

And Stiles is kind of loving the attention.

Okay, in all honesty, Stiles is _really_ loving the attention.

In third period, Lydia actually detached herself from Jackson’s side long enough to give him an _appraising_ look. And, okay, it’s not much, but it’s _something,_ right? Stiles may or may not have fist-pumped to that. If you ask him, he’ll deny everything.

And in the hall between chemistry and English, some random players on the lacrosse team – who Stiles has _never spoken to before_ – high-fived him. And a hot girl from his math class said hi to him when the teacher left the room. (Stiles was too busy checking behind him for someone else she could be talking to for him to speak back in time. Which: pretty stupid, now he thinks about it; he was sat in the back row.)

Lacrosse practice is when things take a turn for the worse.

In all fairness, the actual practice passes pretty much without incident, if Scott and Isaac gossiping like old ladies for fifteen minutes by the goalposts and then getting yelled at by Finstock doesn’t count. It’s in the changing rooms afterwards that the incident happens.

“So, dude,” Scott approaches Stiles awkwardly. “Isaac said that the whole yelling to the whole hallway thing was a pretty uncool thing to do, so I guess I shouldn’t have done that.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair – it’s getting long, but for once, Stiles doesn’t feel the need to cut it short – and sighs. “It’s cool, Scott,” he tells his best friend. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Just,” Scott makes a face, “Derek, Stiles?”

Stiles finds himself getting a bit offended on Derek’s behalf. Derek Hale is a perfectly good piece of ass, thank you very much, and if even his ridiculous abdominal muscles – which Stiles has not ogled before, no sir – don’t meet Scott’s standards of hotness, then Stiles doesn’t know what will. Stiles can’t exactly say that, because dense as Scott may be, even he’ll pick up on the fact that Stiles has maybe had too much time to think about this, and _nope._ Stiles is not going to have that conversation with his best friend.

“Derek isn’t exactly ugly,” is what he says instead.

“Yeah,” Scott agrees easily. “But, like, I didn’t even know you liked him, dude. I mean, it’s Derek,” he adds, like that explains everything. It kind of does.

“It was just one night, Scott,” he dismisses. “I’m not looking for a relationship with him, or anything—”

Stiles cuts himself off at the sound of a snort from behind him. Muscles tensing, he turns around slowly, coming face to face with a smirking Jackson Whittemore.

“I’m probably going to regret asking this, Jackson,” Stiles says, “but care to share with the class?”

Jackson shoves a T-shirt over his head, smirk never fading. “Nothing, Stilinski,” he says. Then, as Stiles is preparing to turn around and just attribute it to Jackson being, well, _Jackson,_ the other lacrosse player goes on, “Just, well, I had no idea you were into _that sort of thing_.” A deliberate pause, then, “You know, _bestiality._ ”

Stiles pauses, a vein visibly throbbing in his temple. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In— _fuck it._ With barely and warning, he spins around and outright _lunges_ at Jackson, only failing to reach him by a few inches when Scott wraps his hands around Stiles’ arms in a death-grip.

“He’s not worth it,” Scott all but growls, even though they’re both on the same page on this. Clobbering Jackson Whittemore would be _more than_ worth it, no matter what _it_ would actually turn out to be.

Jackson smirks at Stiles, and Stiles is getting pretty fucking sick of seeing that expression on the face of the guy whose life he helped save. “Tell me, Stilinski,” Jackson says, “does the sheriff know you like to take it up the ass?”

Stiles lunges at Jackson again, and is surprisingly unsurprised when he actually manages to connect fist with flesh. A quick glance back behind him confirms that Scott is standing behind him, hands raised, an innocent expression on his face – Scott McCall’s way of saying, _Have at it, my friend._ And, well, Scott’s moral compass is far less messed up than Stiles’, so if he’s sanctioning this, then Stiles isn’t going to miss up on an opportunity to pound Jackson Whittemore into the ground.

He doesn’t actually get that many hits in – Jackson is a werewolf, after all, no matter how inexperienced – before Coach Finstock pulls him off and starts yelling about teamwork.

Scott bro-fists him on his exit from the changing room. They share a look.

Yeah, he totally had it coming.

* * *

 

Detention.

That’s what you get for beating up your fellow-teammate in the changing room at Beacon Hills High School.

Stiles was kind of expecting suspension, but apparently, with the recent slew of murders, people are willing to cut teenagers a bit of slack. This is his _first warning,_ though, and _one more step out of line, Stilinski, and I won’t be so forgiving._

Stiles could care less about the consequences. It’s not his first detention and it probably won’t be his last, but at least he actually _earned_ this one and wasn’t given it for some inane reason, like his homework was typed in the wrong font (C _alibri is a default font, Mr Harris_ ) or that he tripped and broke a bunch of chemistry equipment ( _thank you for that one as well, Mr Harris_ ) or that he wouldn’t stop fidgeting ( _and fuck you, Mr Harris, once more, he forgot to take his Adderall that day_ ). He does groan a bit (read: a lot) when he finds out that it’s going to be with his _favourite_ – sarcasm, Scott, heavy sarcasm – chemistry teacher for this one, though ( _once again, fuck you, Mr Harris)_.

Stiles spends the first five minutes of detention actually working, the next seven making detailed notes on all his fellow detainees, and the next two bored out of his skull.

Luckily, before he can reach minute number fifteen, a note lands on his desk.

_What you in for?_

Stiles grips the note in his hand, looking around the room for the hand that threw it. He spots her at the back of the room, Caitlin Stewart, a girl that Stiles has only heard of. She’s never struck him as the type for detention, but what does he know? They haven’t been close since his mother died.

Barely hesitating, he scribbles a reply – **Attacking Jackass Whittemore in the changing rooms. You?** – before throwing the note back.

Stiles watches her unfurl the note, and then snort. She writes her response, scrunches the piece of paper up, and then throws it back.

_Some bitch in my chemistry class said some shit about me being a lesbian. I accused her of being in the closet. She slapped me. I poured acid over her hand._

Stiles blinks in surprise at the message. What happened to the girl who wouldn’t play in the mud because it got her dress dirty? Out of all the possible responses, though, he picks:

**You’re a lesbian?**

Caitlin rolls her eyes. The reply comes back seconds later.

_Bisexual, not that it matters._

It sounds so defeatist that Stiles feels something pang in his chest. He suppresses it. **I’m pretty sure it matters if it matters to you, but hey. Novice bisexual here, not exactly an expert.**

 _Yeah, but you’re doing it well, Mr Notoriety,_ Caitlin writes back. _Heard about you and Derek Hale._

Stiles shakes his head. Of course she heard. Everyone’s heard by now. Even Mr Harris, Stiles thinks, glancing up at the teacher in question, who’s busily grading papers, not taking much note of the conversation that Stiles is having with Caitlin.

 **Yeah, score one for Stiles, I guess,** he writes back, not sure why he feels disappointed.

 _I heard you like it rough,_ comes the reply, and Stiles chokes on his spit when he reads it. A look up tells him that Caitlin is grinning and smothering snickers.

Two can play at that game. **I heard I was into bestiality.**

_I heard that the Lahey kid joined you for round two._

Stiles shakes his head. **Well, Isaac is pretty hot.**

_I heard Hale gave you herpes._

Stiles bites down on his own tongue so hard he tastes blood. **Ew. People suck.**

Caitlin sighs loud enough that Stiles can hear it from where he’s sat. _Tell me about it._

Stiles feels the thing pang in his chest again, and spends a good thirty seconds tapping his pen against the scrap of paper before he actually writes his reply. **It’s not true, by the way.**

_What, the herpes thing?_

**The whole rumour,** Stiles writes back. **Still a virgin. Safe from Derek Hale’s potentially murderous and/or kinky clutches.**

There’s a long pause before Stiles gets a reply back, and for a second he thinks that Caitlin doesn’t want to talk to him anymore, before a ball of paper bounces off his head.

_That’s fucked up._

Stiles scrunches up his nose. To be fair, on a scale of all the crappiness in his life, this doesn’t even rate. **It is what it is.**

_No, but you’re not doing anything about it. You’re just going on, letting people think you’re some kind of deviant... Oh my God, you’re totally enjoying this, aren’t you?_

**What makes you say that?**

Caitlin raises her eyebrows, like really, Stiles, really, before she scribbles back, _Because even though people are talking about you like you’re some sort of manwhore, at least they’re talking about you._

There’s a truth in the statement that should sting, but Stiles accepts it. Yeah, he’s that pathetic, he agrees internally. **Maybe you should take a leaf out of my book. Sleep with a guy. Get whatever her name was to leave off on the lesbian remarks.**

 _So, what?_ Caitlin’s cursive asks him. _I should just pretend to be straight? Wow, thanks Stiles, that’s so helpful. I’d have never figured that one out on my own._

And wow, Stiles never knew it was possible to inject handwriting with that much sarcasm. He’ll have to take note of that, because, wow.

**I’m just saying. And, if you don’t want to sleep with some randomer, then just make it up. Worked for me.**

Caitlin’s reply has him cackling over the time limit to the end of detention and freedom.

_No thanks. Herpes isn’t my thing._

* * *

 

“I got a call from the Principal’s Office today, Stiles,” Stiles’ dad greets his son. “What is it with you and Jackson Whittemore?”

“He was saying crap,” Stiles answers, not looking up from his homework. “Hey Dad,” he starts, changing the subject abruptly, because he really doesn’t want to have to get into _what_ exactly Jackson was saying that led to Stiles throwing caution to the wind and taking on a guy twice his size. “You know what I said over the weekend about me being a virgin? Still stands.”

The sheriff looks slightly disturbed. “Good to know,” he says, but his tone reads, _I’m not going to ask._

Stiles turns back to his homework, wondering when his dad stopped asking questions even when he knew he would hate the answers.


	3. How I Fake Lost My Opposite Sex Sex-Partner Virginity, And Real Lost My Best Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I use the word "ambisexterous" in this chapter and I honestly have no idea how offensive it is. I literally looked up slurs on Wikipedia, and scrolled through until I found one that I thought would fit. I tried to google it but didn't yield any conclusive results. If anyone has any objections to its usage, please let me know.
> 
> In other news, I just remembered that lacrosse is an autumn-through-to-early spring sport and as such these lovely folks wouldn't have lax practice, because, well, lax would be out of season. It's the worst mistake ever on my part because I played lax for _five years of my life_ back in secondary school. Oh well, the Teen Wolf universe's timeline is really messed up anyway. We'll just ignore it for now, okay?

_Throughout the week, I continued to propagate the rumours of my sexual encounters. By Friday, I had a sugar daddy three towns over, an expertise in fellatio that a bona fide pornstar would be envious of, and the stamina of an Olympic athlete – allegedly, of course._

_Looking back on it, as Caitlin said, it was all pretty fucked up. But all I could think was, ‘Great, now I’m going to have to start wearing red lipstick and stripper heels.’_

_That’s when things took a turn for the scandalous._

* * *

 

**Part Three  
 _How I Fake Lost My Opposite Sex Sex-Partner Virginity, And Real Lost My Best Friend_**

* * *

 

Stiles arrives home on Friday after lacrosse practice to the frankly grave face of his father. As he drops his keys on the counter and shrugs off his school bag, the look doesn’t shift.

“What?” Stiles eventually asks.

The sheriff shakes his head, as if living with Stiles for sixteen years _hasn’t_ immunised him against any and all symptoms of weirdness. “There’s a girl for you,” he states.

Stiles gapes.

“She’s waiting in your room,” the sheriff adds. “Said her name was Caitlin.”

That—actually makes a lot more sense than any of the other possible explanations that he’s managed to come up with so far. Stiles decides to put his father out of his misery. “She’s just a friend, Dad,” he explains.

Stiles’ dad raises his eyebrows. “She didn’t look like _just a friend,_ ” he shoots back.

“Still a virgin, Dad,” Stiles says, patting his father on the shoulder and moving upstairs. Then he mutters, mostly to himself, but fully aware his father can still hear, “Probably not going to change any time soon too.”

* * *

 

Caitlin has clearly spent Stiles’ time at lacrosse practice making herself quite comfortably at home in Stiles’ room. When he enters, she’s lounging on his bed, flicking through one of the dusty old books that he stores under his mattress. Stiles is resolutely not thinking about how she found it.

“You’ve got a really fucking weird taste in books,” Caitlin greets him, slamming the cover shut. Stiles winces – does she know how old that book is?

“Sure, go ahead, make yourself at home,” Stiles mutters, slouching into his desk chair. “Do you even have a reason for being here, or did you just want to braid each other’s hair and talk about boys?”

“No,” Caitlin replies, “I want _you_ to braid _my_ hair, and to talk about _girls._ God, Stiles, it’s like you don’t even know me at all.”

Stiles raises his eyebrows – channelling Derek heavily – at her, hoping he manages to get across just how _not_ down with that he truly is.

Caitlin rolls her eyes. “I’m here to talk, what did you think, smartass?”

Stiles makes a gesture as if to say _go ahead_ and Caitlin sighs.

“I want you,” she says slowly, “to have sex with me.”

Stiles blinks.

And blinks again.

And blinks once more.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, “but you’re going to have to say that again, because I’m pretty sure you just asked me to have sex with you, and, well, I’m ninety per cent certain that that’s not what you meant to say.”

Caitlin shrugs. “I want you to have sex with me,” she repeats, “well, pretend to have sex with me. No bodily fluids will be exchanged during this endeavour.”

Stiles stares at her for a solid minute. “Oh my God,” he breathes. “You’re serious.”

“You said it yourself, Stiles,” Caitlin says. “I should pretend to be straight.” She seems to take Stiles’ dumbfounded silence as encouragement. “Come on! We could totally help each other out. You want to maintain this studly façade, and I want to stop having to pour acid over bitches in my chemistry class. It’s a win-win.”

“You’re insane.”

“All I want,” Caitlin goes on, voice sky-rocketing in pitch, “is one, good, imaginary fuck. Heck, I’ll even pay you for it, Stiles.”

Stiles is feeling somewhat light-headed. “You’ll pay me,” he echoes flatly.

Caitlin takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Look, Stiles,” she chokes out, about a hairs’ breadth away from bursting into tears, “not everyone in this stupid, _fucking,_ faux-liberal town gets to be _Danny_ _Mahealani_.” She spits out the name of the lacrosse goalie like he’s personally wronged her. “We don’t all get to come out, backed by our hunky best friends, and end up greeted by school-wide acceptance, _okay_? Some of us are slapped around in chemistry classrooms and drive our parents up the wall because they think that we’re _acting out,_ and people cough slurs at us when we pass in the corridors and I _can’t_ —I don’t know how much longer I can put on a brave face.”

And—fuck. She’s crying. Stiles has never known what to do with girls when they cry, just that his first course of action should be to do whatever the fuck it takes to get them to _stop_ crying. Hesitation buzzing stubbornly in his muscles, Stiles reaches out and pats Caitlin’s shoulder gently.

He has a brief struggle with his conscience, but the bastard moral compass his father ingrained into him – at great personal cost, may Stiles add – wins out.

“Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

Caitlin freezes mid-sob. “Really?” she asks, eyes wide and red-rimmed.

“Really,” Stiles affirms. “I’m not going to do this half-assed, though. It’ll have to be a public event. Lydia Martin is throwing a massive going away party for Jackson tomorrow night and she owes me enough favours that scoring an invite shouldn’t be too much of an issue. You and I are going together—” Stiles finds his speech interrupted suddenly when Caitlin throws her arms around his neck. “It’s just a fuck,” he barrels on, “no kinky shit, and you will tell _everyone_ I was sensational.”

Caitlin is already nodding into his shoulder way before he’s even finished listing his terms. “I can’t believe we’re going to do this,” she breathes in his ear, sounding so goddamn relieved.

“Neither can I,” Stiles mumbles into her hair.

* * *

 

 _It’s a well-known fact around Beacon Hills High that Lydia Martin throws the best parties. Aside from her disastrous birthday bash earlier in the year – which, as many people will attest to, was still a_ banging _party, despite the hallucinations and minor aconite-poisoning – all of her parties tend to go off without a hitch, leaving everyone who’s anyone with something to talk about for weeks to come._

_This one, held in honour of Jackass Whittemore’s long-awaited departure from Beacon Hills High for a stuck-up prat academy – I mean, private school – across the pond, promised to be no different. Booze, bimbos and bikinis – the three key ingredients to any successful pool party, were going to be there in excess. I just hoped that Lydia would forgive me for stealing the show._

_Spoiler: she didn’t._

* * *

 

Stiles’ first order of the night is to practically inhale two glasses of whiskey. It’s not enough to get him drunk – he apparently earned his tolerance for liquor from his father – but is enough to put a stench of alcohol on his breath and dim his nerves.

So he’s a lot more sober than he’s pretending to be when he stumbles through Lydia’s front door later that night, Caitlin almost falling off his arm as she pretends to be completely hammered. He and Caitlin make a show of being all over each other for, grinding up close on the dance floor before Caitlin leans in and whispers, “So we going to do this?” in his ear.

Stiles nods imperceptibly.

It’s almost a miracle that he doesn’t face-plant during his show of drunkenness as they make their way over to Lydia, whose face is growing evermore unimpressed by the second.

“Stiles,” she greets coldly.

“Hey, Lydia,” Stiles greets, lengthening the vowels in each word to an unnecessary degree. “Happy Birthday!”

Lydia quirks an eyebrow dangerously. “It’s not my birthday.”

Stiles ignores it – and God, since when has he ever ignored what Lydia said? – in favour of pulling Caitlin closer. “So, Caitlin here, Katie, Cat, Kitty-Cat—” Caitlin giggles haphazardly into his side, “—was just telling me this _really funny thing,_ if you know what I mean,” and if she didn’t, then Stiles would guess that the way he’s waggling his eyebrows is clearing it up rapidly, “and I was wondering if there was a room, or a tent, or something, where we could go and she could finish telling me that thing that’s _funny._ ” Caitlin bursts out into titters again, and, wow, Stiles has to hand it to her, she’s doing an _excellent_ job at this whole fake-drunk malarkey.

Lydia’s expression remains stuck on _unimpressed,_ but she makes a gesture down the hallway. “Guest room,” she says shortly. “Third door on the right.”

Stiles smiles disarmingly at her, and then whisks Caitlin away. Behind him, he can hear someone – Danny, maybe? – asking, “Was that just Stiles Stilinski and Caitlin Stewart?” and Lydia’s response of, “I know, what the fuck?”

Stiles slams the door shut.

* * *

 

The first words out of Caitlin’s mouth the moment they’re alone are, “Don’t ever call me Kitty-Cat again, or I swear to God—”

Stiles snorts. “You’ll what?” he asks. “Rip my throat out with your teeth?”

Caitlin shoots him a perturbed look as she goes for the blinds, drawing them quickly, before pulling out a pair of underwear from her pocket and throwing them at Stiles so he can hang them over the keyhole. “You ready for me to rock your world, Stilinski?” she asks.

Stiles grins, “Absolutely.”

* * *

 

_I always thought that pretending to lose my other V-card – hetero virginity? We need a better name for that – would be a bit more … special, I guess? As it turned out, I fake-popped my cherry while fake-drunk off my face, in Lydia Martin’s guest room with everyone I’d ever had a crush on, waiting outside the door, listening to me moan like a whore._

_And when I was done, clothes mussed up for effect, I was greeted by a handful of high-fives from people I barely spoke to, and an offer of a lift home from Isaac Lahey._

* * *

 

“Dude, you don’t even _own_ a car,” Stiles tells Isaac, making sure to sway dangerously on his feet.

Isaac doesn’t look up from where he’s texting on his phone. “Scott would never forgive me if I let you drive like this,” he says.

“Glad to know I mean so much to you,” Stiles slurs, but he stops being able to fully form words when he spots a black Camaro pulling up.

Isaac must spot the look of utter hatred on Stiles’ face, because he grins like the sadistic little shit he is. “Your ride’s here,” he says, and turns back to the party.

Stiles only briefly considers walking home before getting into the car.

* * *

“Thanks for the ride, man,” Stiles greets Derek as he clambers into the passenger seat.

Derek turns to him, allowing his eyebrows to do the talking. Jesus, Stiles wonders, how is it possible to get that much judgement packed into one expression.

Derek turns his eyes back to the road and stamps down on the accelerator. “You really need to stop getting drunk,” he mutters.

Stiles chokes. “Holy God, it cares!” he cries. “Dude, you just expressed concern for my well-being. This is a monumental occasion, Derek! Next we know, you’ll start using my front door—”

“ _Stiles._ ”

“—and stop knocking me into things, then we’ll actually be _almost friends_ —”

“ _Stiles._ ”

“—and then it’s just a slippery slope to marriage and two point five kids—”

“ _Stiles._ ”

Stiles blinks. “What?”

“Shut. Up.”

Given that Derek’s actually being considerate enough to give him a ride home, Stiles thinks he can find it in himself to keep quiet. Maybe it’s the lingering alcohol in his system, but he actually manages the entire car journey in silence.

* * *

 

“How was the party, kiddo?” Stiles’ dad asks him as he trudges back inside.

“Same old, same old,” Stiles dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Kids got drunk, kids had sex, kids did drugs.”

Stiles’ dad – who is also _the sheriff,_ Stiles, _God_ – frowns at his son. “I’m not going to get any calls about noise and disturbances am I?”

Stiles shakes his head. “Dad?” he asks.

“Yeah, Stiles?”

Stiles feels the words pooling in his mouth, ready to let go of it all. Instead, he bites down and says, “Still a virgin.”

“Go to bed, Stiles.”

* * *

 

Later that night, Stiles gets a text while his phone is plugged in to charge.

**_Caitlin:  
_ ** _Stop by my uncle’s garage whenever._

Then:

**_Caitlin:  
_ ** _And Stiles? Thank you._

* * *

 

Sunday morning greets Stiles far too early and far too loudly when his annoying phone ringtone for Scott – _Born to Be Wild,_ in case you were wondering – mercilessly jars him out of sleep.

“Go fuck yourself,” is how he answers the phone.

“ _Is it true, Stiles?_ ” Scott demands loudly, and it’s _seven a.m._ on a _Sunday._ What is he even doing awake?

Stiles rolls over in bed. “Probably not,” he says, “but go on.”

“ _Did you really sleep with Caitlin Stewart at Lydia’s party last night?”_ Scott asks, his tone distressed.

Stiles sighs, sinking back into his pillow. “Is that what people are saying happened?” he asks, avoiding giving a direct answer.

“ _Stiles, I had to find out my best friend slept with_ Caitlin Stewart _from_ Jackson Whittemore, _”_ Scott spits down the line. “ _Do you know how awful that was?_ Jackson Whittemore. _”_

“Well if _Jackson_ ’s saying it, then it _must_ be true,” Stiles shoots back.

Scott makes a sound of frustration. “ _God, Stiles, just because you lost your virginity, doesn’t mean you can go around sticking it in anything with a hole!”_

Stiles blanches. That’s probably the most vulgar thing Scott has ever said, and none of this is _any of his business,_ anyway _._ “Gee, thanks, Mom,” Stiles says, the word _mom_ tasting bitter on his lips. “Great talk.”

“ _You’re getting a reputation, Stiles,”_ Scott hisses.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees readily, “and you’re coming across as a little pious. It’s kind of pissing me off.”

“ _The fact that I told you everything about me and Allison and I had to find out about_ you _losing your virginity from Danny pisses_ me _off, Stiles,”_ Scott all but screams down the phone. “ _And now everyone – and I do mean everyone, Stiles – is saying that you’re some kind of—ambisexterous hustler! I don’t even know if you’re my friend anymore, or if you’re going to be too busy picking up STIs on street corners!”_

Stiles blinks. “Well, do _you_ think I’m an—” and Jesus, what the hell does that even mean? “— _ambisexterous hustler_ , Scott?” It’s a challenge and a chance to back down all in one.

Scott doesn’t take it. “ _I didn’t want to believe it, Stiles, but I guess it’s true._ ”

The saliva in Stiles’ mouth turns sour. “Yeah, and you’re bitterly single,” he retorts and hangs up.

His cell’s innocently blinking screen starts to piss him off so he throws it across the room.

* * *

 

_Well, if people thought I was an ambisexterous hustler, then I was going to be the hottest ambisexterous hustler that they had ever seen._

_I really don’t do anything half-assed._

* * *

 

It takes him the entirety of his Sunday, an army of drag queens, and a concerned conversation with his dad – which ended in a command to “give them hell” – for Stiles to be ready for school on Monday. But, when he enters through the double doors and strides down the hallway, it’s more than worth it.

Dressed from head to toe in black, dark sunglasses perched on his artfully tousled hair, and clad in fuck-me biker boots, Stiles’ looks like gay porn’s wet dream. The crowds of people part like the red sea for him as he makes his way down the corridor to where Scott is talking to Isaac by his locker.

Studiously ignoring his best friend, Stiles turns to Isaac, who looks to be trying desperately hard not to laugh. “Hey Isaac,” he says huskily.

Isaac grins back. “Looking good, Stilinski,” he says.

Stiles runs his eyes over Isaac – a gesture that feels downright _lecherous_ – and drags his tongue over the tips of his teeth. “Tell Derek I said hi,” he breathes, leaning in close to Isaac’s cheek as he does so, before whirling around and strutting off, determined not to give Scott a second glance.

* * *

 

_I don’t know if it was the fact that I was dressed all in black, or if it was because I was wearing a netted shirt that was entirely see-through, but I was getting a lot of attention. I mostly suspect it was because Brandy and the girls had told me I looked like a hooker._

* * *

 

Stiles jumps nearly a foot in the air when Heather Rosseau takes a seat next to him in study hall. She and Stiles have known each other since nursery school and gave each other their first kisses back in the eighth grade.

When Heather starts the conversation with, “Don’t get mad,” however, Stiles realises that he’s not going to like where this is going.

“Caitlin told me what you did for her,” Heather whispers to Stiles.

Stiles gives Heather a salacious smirk. “Rest assured, Heather, it was equally satisfying for me.”

Heather shakes her head. “No, she told me what you _really_ did.” There’s an awkward pause, then Heather admits, “I was hoping you could do the same for me.”

Stiles’ feels his mouth drop open.

“I can pay you!” Heather says quickly, misreading his shock for hesitance.

A few people look up at her outburst, but Stiles is quick to agree. “Okay, okay,” he soothes. “Just,” he glances around the study hall. “Keep your voice down.”

* * *

 

_I guess now is the time to say that that’s how the rumour that I was soliciting sex for money came about. Heather kind of needs to learn how to use her inside voice._

_But since we’re playing name and shame, I guess I should also dob in the other miscreants who paid me for a place in my evermore colourful sexual history. There was Lewis Erikson who gave me a $200 gift card to The Gap in exchange for some make-believe frottage in the locker room. And Rebecca Harlowe, who offered me a week’s free calculus homework in exchange for a fake steamy make-out session in the janitor’s closet. And let’s not forget Jimmy Chang who gave me a pizza coupon so that he could say that I blew him in his car after school._

_It was bizarre. Before, where people had never even given me a second glance, they were lining up to say they slept with me._

_Just, where was_ my _chance at a romance for the ages? My best friend got to have the epic high school first love and I just got dragged along for the ride. Where was_ my _Allison Argent? Where were_ my _clandestine meetings beneath the crescent moon? Where was my clichéd, sweet-enough-to-give-you-diabetes relationship?_

_Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, all of you. Stiles Stilinski, the guy who by all accounts has been screwing his way through the entire population of Beacon Hills, is a closet romantic. Who would’ve known?_

_Well, there is one person – a guy, in case any of you were wondering – who apparently did know, but that comes later in the story._


End file.
